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Clans of the Seasons/Springpaw
Note: this was inspired by a story I read recently. Other than that, I have nothing to say XD Blurb Springpaw’s home was in the abandoned graveyard. She has lived there her whole life, with her one friend and protector, Puppet, standing tall and stiff over the graveyard on the roof of the forgotten chapel that had crumbled away into the earth. She didn’t even remember why she was called Springpaw, for a spirit cat’s sake — it sounded different to every name she heard like Archie and Raven, being said by passing cats through whispers. The forgotten graveyard was her home, even if nobody else was to remember this place, it was hers, and nobody else’s. But maybe that’s about to change. Chapter One One night, when she was almost nine moons old, Springpaw crept out from her sheltered rag nest in a crumbled corner of the dilapidated temple and sat on a jutting stone. Milky moonlight spilled over the graveyard and stars scattered across the navy sky twinkled and winked playfully. It was oddly still tonight. No birds were hooting or chirping, no cats were meowing or yowling or on the prowl for an extra mouthful of food, and no yellow light blared from Twoleg windows. “It’s how it should be.” Puppet’s whispery mew startled Springpaw, and she spun around, her silver fur a little ruffled. She smoothed it down and mewed, “What do you mean?” “How often does a cat get to enjoy a night like this?” Springpaw shrugged. She didn’t quite agree with Puppet sometimes, and he didn’t always agree with her. Like how he thought “rubbish” of what Springpaw thought as “food” and what he called “peaceful” Springpaw called “eerie”. This was one of those times. “It’s too quiet,” she answered gruffly “There’s no such thing as too quiet,” Puppet mewed matter-of-factly. Springpaw bit back a scowl. She hated ''it when he talked in that silly voice. It made her want to claw his stupid starry tail right off. “Is so,” she showed her feelings by retorting curtly. “Not.” “Yes.” “Not.” “yes.” “Not.” “Yes.” “N — fine, you win.” Springpaw laughed and stood up triumphantly. “You go do your thing. I’m going to hunt for rats.” Puppet made a small disparaging sound and ambled away. The twolegs used Springpaw’s home as some sort of dirtplace. Every day they dumped mounds and mounds of smelly stuff in corners of her home, and the noise was deafening. Sometimes it just went on and on and on as if it would never stop. But after a moon or so Springpaw got used to it and later began to become quite grateful for it, as it attracted nests of rats — her main food source. Puppet had taught her how to hunt. She could hunt her birds and everything, but it was mainly rats. Birds and mice and whatnot never came into the graveyard. Perhaps the overgrown grass and the lichen-covered stones she played on frightened them off. Maybe they just couldn’t build a sustainable home here. Springpaw sometimes wondered about those things, but right now she dropped into a hunter’s crouch and began creeping up on a rat near the outskirts of the stinkmound. Springpaw invented that name because the amount of twoleg waste was so much and it reeked so badly, and plus she enjoyed making up names. Once the rat was distracted by a silvery shiny thing, Springpaw pounced, launching her skinny silver frame at the rat. It squealed and tried to bite as Springpaw sank her claws into it, but it was too late. Springpaw bit down on the rat’s neck as hard as she could. The buckling and squealing quickly subsided, and the rat grew limp and still. Happily, Springpaw dragged it to her favourite eating spot — a rock jutting out of the stone wall with burdock plants growing all about it. Puppet had told her the roots came in handy when she got a rat bite. She liked to gather them in the middle of leaf-fall, but was always careful to leave just enough so they could grow after the harsh leaf-bare. She sat on top of the rock and examined the rat. It wasn’t fat, but it wasn’t skinny either — somewhere in between. Springpaw took a big bite and began to dine on her midnight meal. As she ate, Springpaw began to wonder. She began to wonder as to why she was named Springpaw, and why she was the only cat in the graveyard. It wasn't as if she didn't like the graveyard -- in fact, she cherished it, cherished its huge crumbling wooden Twoleg den, cherished its privacy and jutting stones and puddles and everything it offered for entertainment and for survival. If any cat could build a sustainable home here and live a decent life, it was Springpaw. It was just that she was simply curious. The mysteries of Springpaw's life revolved like a blur of dizzying cats until she shook them away Chapter Two “… and then, Skipper sprang at Rooty, and — “ “Puppet?” Springpaw mewed vaguely. “What is it, Springpaw?” Puppet did not sound at all thrilled to have his tale interrupted. Springpaw rummaged around her brain for a question. “Puppet…” “Yes? Hurry up now, I want to get on with my tale.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when Springpaw blurted, “where do kittens come from?” Silence. ''Deathly ''silence. Silence like the kind of silence after a cat had been murdered, and its treacherous killer was looming over its body and glowering at them ominously. Then after a few heartbeats that seemed like moons, Puppet answered, in nothing more than a soft mew that was nothing like his own. '"Awful, terrible, living things."' Puppet spat out the last two words -- ''living things ''-- like he had mistakenly bitten crow-food, but to Springpaw it sounded lovely. She was a "living thing" herself, yet Puppet favoured ''her over any other "living things" -- the rats in the stinkmound, the wild tangles of ivy vines and lichen that flourished on the rough stone walls, any living thing -- but her. Puppet did look quite haunted by this question -- he would usually answer with a strong voice and confident tone, but Springpaw tried to ignore this as she continued stiffly, "Explain." Puppet shook his head, wanting to say no more. Springpaw felt that exasperated tingling in her paws she always got when she was close to an answer or explanation but couldn't put her paw on it. "Please," she pressed, "why are "living things" so terrible? I think they're lovely." Puppet stared at her incredulously, and at the same time hesitating to answer. Impatience flared up inside Springpaw, stronger than gales tearing through the branches of trees, stronger than that ginormous rat she had to battle to get to the freshest burdock last leaf-fall. Puppet had never denied to answer her a question before, and suddenly Springpaw felt determined to get it. "I... cannot tell you," Puppet answered finally, and for a split second Springpaw didn't know what he was talking about. "I really truly don't know, Springpaw. If I did, I would tell you. Isn't that true?" Springpaw's impatience ebbed away and she thought it over. It was true, Puppet answered her questions as earnestly as he could, with no hesitation. But Springpaw thought that this was only for the things inside ''her precious graveyard. Whenever she asked something about the world outside it (which wasn't that often, she thought), his answers seemed vague or else he didn't know. But Springpaw thought he was hiding something, for she knew when she was asleep (or when he ''thought she was asleep), Puppet left his post on the roof of the crumbling chapel and went somewhere that was unbeknownst to Springpaw.